Southern Hospitality
by Cyanide Lemons
Summary: They forget about the man who had cut off his own hand to replace it with a machine. They forget about the man who systematically ripped apart their counterparts with glee and whose violent temper had once sent the Soldier to the infirmary with cracked ribs. They forget about the animal just under the gentle Texan's skin. You haven't. You can't.


**TRIGGER WARNING like woah! Graphic torture and some references to non-consenting sexual touching. Also the second person point of view can be disorientating, **

**More evil Engie. Victim Spy.**

**Hints at betrayal and long term abuse.**

**You have been warned.**

**(Posted originally at the tf2 adult fanfic site (it had more spelling mistakes and allusions to sex), cleaned up a little )**

You know the cruelty of human nature better than most. You have an intimate relationship with the type of brutality that greed and desperation breed. You have travelled far and wide and have concluded that, no matter where you go, you can never out run the waves of regret that follow.

The men at 2Fort are a prime example of this.

Take, for instance, the Engineer.

In battle he could be described as a frantic war machine, building his own small army of death and rebirth. He is the king to his own little kingdom, and trespassers are never welcome. He can be seen setting up teleport machines, turrets and dispensers where ever he sees most fit, weaving in and out of battle and dodging projectiles while lugging the heavy burdens. His methods are never fully explained but always effective.

He isn't just for defence either; with that new arm of his, he can also be seen darting to the front lines with a mini sentry - even during the small respites of battle he could be seen doing _something_, and it is usually done with the intention of killing you and your teammates.

He has dedicated precision when out there on the field, thinking a step ahead and plotting the trajectory that he knows you will follow. He has ingenious tools and even more ingenious means of using them, and is never afraid to do so. You have lost count of the times you have died to that blasted wrangled sentry he sets up in the most unexpected places.

His short stature makes it easy to underestimate him and although stocky, he doesn't seem as imposing as the Heavy, or anywhere near as fast as the Scout. You don't understand why he keeps getting the better of your team; what makes him so hard to kill. The best bet is to face him head on when he is alone, or when he is distracted with his machines. He is smart with the way he fights, never letting you get a chance at his back or neck… and more than willing to call for help.

If you didn't have your invisibility or disguises you would never be able to get near enough to kill him. You are one of the only ones that can get a pick on him and his sentries, besides an ubered Heavy, and he goes out of your way to make your job as difficult as he can.

There is a frustration when fighting the Engineer, but there is fear too.

The careless regard towards life is unsurprising considering the job, even expected, but you cannot help but feel that he has developed it into an art form. His sentries can mow down a group like they are the cardboard-cut-outs Soldier loves so much. He has painted the walls with blood, _your_ _blood, _and he never once flinches. Instead he can be heard laughing; a quiet, dangerous chuckle that sends shivers down your back.

When fighting, it is expected of one to kill, to dismember, to confuse and misdirect and do all sort of depraved things that normal society shuns. He is not alone in this, not unique. But it is off the battle field that makes you dread him so much.

Out of the dust and grit he looks like just another man. His smile is cheerful, his mirth warm, and he never has anything bad to say to anyone… besides you. He is polite, calm, the type of person that breaks up the fights instead of starting them. He can cook decently, and even knows how to stitch a ripped shirt. If someone has a problem in need of fixing they go first to the Engineer, because that is what he does.

He even gets along with most of his team, including the Pyro, and although he acts antagonistic toward your twin there never seems to be any real malice, at least, that anyone can call him on.

It is slightly ridiculous the way the other team looks towards him for guidance, how they turn a blind eye towards his cruelty, and you are disgusted that you find yourself not completely immune.

He is a complete fake.

It is convincing too. People forget his blood soaked hands when looking at his charming smile, relax around him and ask him for advice. He seems to be a natural born leader (or manipulator) that cares about his co-workers.

They forget about the man who had _cut off his own hand_ to replace it with a machine. They forget about the man who systematically ripped apart their counterparts with glee and whose violent temper had once sent the Soldier to the infirmary with cracked ribs.

They forget about the animal just under the gentle Texan's skin.

You haven't.

You can't.

Not with the knowledge you harbour that bites and claws at your mind, not with the way his eyes find yours across the fence and the way he smiles, lips stretching in a mockery of human emotion.

His express says _"Tell them, I __**dare you**__."_

You refuse to answer the bait, even as you realise this is just another manipulation. Your pride is such that you wouldn't anyways, though perhaps that might have changed in time. As things stand you can do nothing but wait, and dread. Hope a little too, that he will turn his attention elsewhere.

He never lets you wait too long.

He is efficient in everything, even this, and you curse him at the same time as you sigh in relief.

The waiting is almost worse than the act itself, and you have been torturing yourself with wonderings and scenarios.

There is precision in this too, like there is precision in everything he does.

It is something you have noticed before, in his interactions with the others. It is in the way he guides them with words, like if he can get it just right everything will fall into place and he will have a perfect, finished result.

He never seems to get disappointed when that turns out to be false, even seems to relish it as if everyone around him where some stubborn misfiring sentry and he needs to fix. It is a challenge to him, a mission. And he is just as stubborn as to see it through.

It is a cold passion, detached as he watches you, still scientific in the way he goes about it, but it burns your skin like the kiss of Pyro's flamethrower.

At first it was a subtle obsession; he would go out of his way to gun you down, leave the killing blow until the last minute and get a little too happy with getting up-close-and-personal to fight you. You had thought at first that it was his revenge for all the times you had sabotage his machines, that this was a normal, if frustrating development.

But then you found the monitoring devices.

You should have probably stopped it right then, told your team about the leak, maybe even whispered into the Administrator's ear about the break in contract.

But you had been curious, hadn't you?

You hadn't known that he had them in all the rooms, even yours.

And now it's too late; already there is a tape somewhere of your face, your identity, unmasked and waiting for shipping to all the major crime and intelligence agencies in the world. If anyone finds out, from you or not, he will push the button that will send it out.

And now it has escalated. Now _he_ has escalated. You have been here for a about a week, frail and chained to a hook in the ceiling. At first you had been drugged, a chemical cocktail even you were not immune to. Now he doesn't bother, as your body betrays you and refuses to cooperate properly.

You had been taken after ceasefire, which means that one of your teammates had to have let him in.

This is the moment when you start to doubt. When all those little clues and cookie crumb trails lead you back to that one person.

The creaking of footsteps reach you before the light does.

You blink away the recollection, discomforted by the mix of emotions that always come with it.

Shame; for being blind enough for you to have missed the signs, confusion; because you still don't understand completely, anger; at him and at yourself, and a quiet desolation that creeps upon your mind and sinks into your bones.

You know you will need your wits for what is happening, because sometimes he can be reasoned with, but only if you stay calm enough to insert enough logic into your argument. It is hard though, as you feel the cold, hard ground beneath you, as your eyes nervously wander towards that telling corner where he keeps his tools.

You close your eyes. It _is_ why he keeps a permanent dispenser in the room after all. You gnash your teeth and clench your fist; you think that this time you will kill him, that this time you will escape and rip his head right off his neck; perhaps you will pay him in kind with all the horrors he bestowed upon you. You think of the broad expanse of his back and feel the itch to cut through the flesh and bones until you hit his heart.

You would carve it out, the frozen shrivelled core of an equally cold and cruel man. And what would you do with the pathetic excuse for a human shell after that?

Your fantasy is disrupted by the screech of metal against metal. The door to the room opens and the grey oil lamp is lit. The light glints menacingly off of the reflective glass of his goggles and shades his face under the hard hat. His grin is easy enough to see though, and repulsion curls in your gut. You sneer in response.

"Mornin', Spy… sleep well?"

He knows perfectly well you haven't, knows he is the reason you haven't. Your fingernails dig into the palm of your hands and your jaw tenses before you force yourself to relax. It is these reactions he is looking for and you won't give him the satisfaction.

"_Les accommodations ont besoin_ _un peu de travail_," you say, eyes tracking him as he wanders the room, fingers trailing over the workbench.

His grin widens, and you have no clue whether that is because he understands you or if it's based purely on tone. With 11 PhDs you figure he is smart enough to have learnt French, but you know he won't tell you. He has never spoken it, in any case. He turns away from you to more closely inspect something lying on the uneven table - you would know, your face has an intimate relationship with the rough surface of that bench.

"M'afraid there's nothing' I can do for that, sorry." He isn't. "But I know of a lil' somethin' that'll cheer you up." His hand closes around something out of your field of view. You swallow the fear that suddenly creeps up your spine.

"That's not needed, _mon ami_, I am sure I will get over it," you say, eyes straining to determine if this is a new "something". You aren't sure if there is anything on that bench he_ hasn't_ used before.

He turns around with a small box.

You are confused at first. It appears to be something akin to a remote, but there isn't anything in the room that would need the use of one. He taps the box against your chest, drapping it down and mussing the material of your jacket to lightly run his fingers over the rope around your thighs. It is odd, isn't it, how you always respawn with your clothing intact (but not your mind).

"Nonsense, it's the least I could do."

You are tired of these pretenses. Maybe he finds his words ironic, but you have no patience for false niceties anymore. You turn your eyes towards the ceiling; there is a crack that runs diagonal across your vision. It is a familiar sight.

"What is the point to this, labourer? If it is… _la revenge_ you are looking for, I would think you have had that all ready."

It is something that has been bothering you for a while. You haven't had a chance to ask before; he hasn't given you a chance, with the gags and the knives and how he smirks at you in a way that makes your jaw clench and your teeth grind and your tongue swell in your mouth so that every word you speak is a torture in itself.

His hand reappears in your field of view, ungloved now, and settles itself on the curve of your throat. His fingers slip under your balaclava to rest on your pulse point. You barely stop yourself from flinching. So far he hasn't seemed interested in taking it off, of exposing you in that way. And yet you never know whether he will uncover you for the sake of rendering you completely vulnerable.

The hand travels across your Adam apple to circle towards the back of your neck. He digs his fingers in your nape and wrenches your head sideways. You inhale in surprise at the sudden motion.

He smells like iron, or blood.

"Revenge? Oh Spy, it was never about revenge."

You blink.

"Then why?" The words spill out without your consent. At the angle you are at you can't see his face, but you don't need too to feel the amusement he directs at you.

"Well… 'cause I can."

You aren't surprised. Why aren't you surprised? Something inside of you already knew there was no real logic to it. You had caught his attention and now must deal with the consequence. There is something in the back of your mind that tells you this has been going on for quite some time, longer than you have noticed.

How long has he been watching? Waiting for that fateful day after ceasefire?

He lets go of your neck to pick up the box again and fiddles with the buttons and knobs. It takes you a moment to return your gaze to the ceiling.

You wonder if your teammates have noticed your absence. There is a drawback to your invisibility after all it seems.

"Now I need y'all to hold still for this, don't wantcha to get hurt or anything."

"If you would let me out of this contraption I would be glad to show you how "still" I can be, you _putain_."

He laughs and pats your leg as he walks over to a switch on the wall. It turns on a generator that is hooked up to most of his electric "toys".

The power turns on.

There is a pause as nothing happens, then a faint noise drifts in from underneath you. Soon after that you can feel a high pressure vibration that starts from the base of your spine and crawls upwards.

Arcs of electricity race up.

You scream and scream and scream.

Then you black out.

It isn't the peaceful darkness of being knocked out. Nor is it the more head numbing effect of drinking until you pass out. It isn't even quite like the tranquilisers he first used on you.

It is a slow choking, as muscles seize and your vision blackens bit by bit. You can't breathe, can't think.

It is a mercy when your mind finally blanks and your body relaxes itself back into its bonds. Light slowly trickles back into your field of view.

Only a minute has passed and you can already feel that you have wrenched your shoulder out of place. The ropes weren't tight enough.

And you think; oh. That's what it does.

You breathe in deeply and vaguely notice that your hand is bleeding, cut by a sharp edge in the chains you had grasped in reflex to try to pull up and away.

His eyes are on your face and chest, looking for your expression and the way your chest heaves.

If you can get your hand free it will only take one quick slash across his throat for this whole nightmare to end.

There is silence.

He wrenches your head to the side again, pressing his thump deep into your jaw. You try to keep it closed; you want to stall as much as you can, resist with as much strength possible even if the thought of escape seems impossible.

He frowns and presses harder, digs his nails in deep. Your mouth opens.

You realise he is checking to make sure you didn't bite your tongue as he peers down on you. His thumb runs over you bottom lip, swiping at a cut you didn't realise you had. Blood trickles down your lip.

You bite at his fingers, almost catching his index as he quickly draws his hand away. He smirks at you as he brings his thumb up to his mouth and licks the blood off. He then backhands you with his Gunslinger, making your head snap around and iron flood your mouth.

You snarl at him with bloody teeth showing. Though your arms and legs might be restrained, you are not completely harmless. If he brings any part of himself near your mouth it will be coming off.

"Feisty, ain't'cha?"

He chuckles to himself and brings his other hand to the collar of your jacket while the metal one keeps your head restrained. He does quick work of your tie and slips his fingers under the buttons of your jacket to run his hand over your shirt. Your skin crawls and you reflectively try to move away from the feeling, only for the hard surface of the gurney to prevent you from being able to.

He pops the first three buttons and drags his nails across your collarbone.

Red welts rise from the path the fingers take. With the Gunslinger still holding your head immobile he shifts his weight to drag the table closer. The wooden legs score across the floor and create a high pitch, abrasive sound that resonates in your head like a tuning fork.

His hand finds a metal object, your knife you realise, as he leans into your face and breathes against your mouth. He won't kiss you. He never will. It isn't even because of the dangers either (you have very sharp teeth), but because he still considers himself a gentlemen. He will only kiss a lover, and you are anything but.

You are a toy. A pass time.

He brings the knife point to your skin, drags a line from the corner of your lips to your ear catching the fabric of your balaclava, not cutting yet but with a clear promise in the action.

He leans back a bit to look you in the eye.

His pupils are dilated; blow wide with the high of his power, and your mind flies through the calculations of how much force it would take to tear them from his skull.

"I've always wondered what' ya though of this little thing 'ere"

He lifts the switchblade a little higher, admires it in the meager light.

Your eyebrows crease.

"Whether you have the same sortav feelin' for it as the Heavy does for his gun, or if its justa another tool for you." His eyes follow the path of the blade as he drags it down your neck, down towards your collarbone and the still red marks his finger nails had drawn.

His smile chills your skin. You truly have no idea what he is going on about, his words only strengthen the idea that he is completely insane.

"Whether…It feels like a betrayal ev'r time I do this"

His wrist flicks, catching the edge of the blade against your jacket and tearing away the cloth across your chest. He brings the knife back and slowly drags the tip into the flesh above your sternum. You inhale sharply through your nose as the razor sharp edge sinks into your body.

Blood runs freely from the wound, and you grind your teeth as he uses your own blade to cut away at the skin of your chest.

Light, precise strokes that leave a trail of burning flames through your body.

He takes his time, building up into deeper and deeper incisions. He travels the planes of your torso as if you were a violin and your knife was the bow. Sweeping gestures leave blood splattered against both of your clothes and faces.

He pauses, surveys his handy work with air of an artist. Absent mindedly running his fingers over the jagged skin. You hiss and flinch away minutely, jostling your still dislocated shoulder. His eyes fixe themselves on the movement and his mouth slowly stretches into a grin. The hand that had been restraining your head moves slowly down towards your clavicle, fingers ghosting along the seam where clothe meets skin.

In a move that leaves you reeling, he grabs your arm and _yanks._

The pain is akin to the feeling of a knife scraping along the tender edge of an already broken bone. You yowl, cutting off abruptly at the insane glee on your captors face. Cool numbness creeps up your hand and you breathe through clenched teeth.

It is not the pain leaves the white spots between your eyes, but an all-consuming anger.

How you wish you could just reach up and smash his smug face right off.

As the spots leave your vision you see him reach again towards the table. The hum of the dispenser in the corner matches the hum in your skin, and he pauses in his search to watch the skin of your torso slowly knit back together.

It is a disorientating feeling, almost its own type of pain.

"Lovely" He whispers, before turning back to his task.

In the dark of the room you can barely make out the shape of a cattle rode, and for a moment you want to snort. How typically Texan of him. What fabulous southern hospitality.

You close your eyes.

…**I creep myself out sometimes. I should probably mention I don't condone these actions and that this was more catharsis than fantasy. I might continue but it requires a certain mind set for writing this story. **

***SPOILER* It was the enemy spy along with the friendly sniper that opened the gates for engy to steal spy away. They did it for different reasons though**


End file.
